This spring, the Boise Art Museum presented "The Last Supper," an arresting exhibition by artist Julie Green, featuring 1,000 ceramic plates, each meticulously hand-painted with the final meal requested by individuals sentenced to death in the United States. Over a span of 22 years, Green employed cobalt blue brushstrokes on salvaged white ceramic plates, transforming each plate into a poignant testament to a life nearing its end, a process culminating in the transformative heat of a kiln.

Green’s artistic journey into this somber subject began in 1999 while she was teaching at the University of Oklahoma. A local newspaper article detailing the execution of Norman Lee Newsted, a 45-year-old man condemned for murder, captured her attention. The article recounted his final request: six tacos, a half-dozen glazed doughnuts, and a Cherry Coke. This vivid, specific detail lodged itself in Green’s memory, prompting her to clip the article and tuck it away. Six months later, another report detailing the execution of Malcolm Rent Johnson, a 41-year-old convicted of rape and murder, further solidified her artistic resolve. Johnson’s final meal—three fried chicken thighs, a mound of shrimp, Tater Tots with ketchup, two slices of pecan pie, strawberry ice cream, honey and biscuits, and a Coke—struck Green with its profound specificity and personal nature, which she later articulated as having "humanized death row."

From a distance, the exhibition presented a striking mosaic of blue and white plates, evoking the familiar aesthetic of antique Dutch pottery. However, upon closer inspection, each plate revealed an intimate portrait of final cravings and simple comforts: a bologna and cheese sandwich, butter pecan ice cream, fried green tomatoes, cherry limeade, apple pie. These seemingly ordinary selections, rendered with such deliberate care, offered a powerful counterpoint to the extraordinary circumstances of their consumption.

The exhibition served as a catalyst for reflection on capital punishment, a topic often considered abstractly through moral and philosophical lenses. The author, having previously explored the subject through the lens of a specific crime—the 1993 kidnapping and murder of 12-year-old Polly Klaas and the subsequent decades-long death row sentence of her killer, Richard Allen Davis—found "The Last Supper" brought the issue into sharper, more visceral focus. Davis, currently in California, one of the 27 states that retain capital punishment but also one of only four with active moratoriums on executions, is likely to die in prison of old age, a fate that underscores the protracted and often uncertain nature of capital cases.

The author’s prior research into the Klaas case illuminated the profound suffering one individual could inflict, prompting a search for any trace of humanity in the perpetrator’s past. The absence of any evidence of kindness or love in his history led to introspective questions about the nature of empathy and the potential for confronting such individuals. The author pondered the emotional response to meeting someone like Davis—whether empathy would arise, and if its absence would be more disturbing. This deeply personal contemplation, however, remains an unfulfilled inquiry, as Davis has not responded to interview requests.

The profound significance of food as an expression of love and comfort resonated deeply within the exhibition. The author recalled witnessing the healing power of shared meals in the aftermath of a devastating tornado, where community efforts to provide sustenance offered solace to those who had lost their homes. Similarly, the act of preparing a beloved family recipe at a funeral served as a tangible way to ease grief, demonstrating how cooking can be an act of kindness, a small measure of control in the face of overwhelming powerlessness. Even when unable to alleviate profound pain, the fundamental human need to eat persists.

Among the displayed plates, two represented Idaho: Paul Rhoades’ final meal on November 18, 2011, consisted of the prison’s "Daily Special"—hot dogs with sauerkraut, baked beans, and veggie sticks, accompanied by gelatin studded with fruit and a "special treat" of strawberry ice cream. Keith Michael Wells’ last meal on January 6, 1994, was notably more extravagant, featuring a whole lobster, a rack of prime rib, two pints of black walnut ice cream, a 2-liter bottle of Coca-Cola, and a half-gallon carton of milk.

These specific details of last meals are particularly poignant in the context of Idaho’s current legal landscape. Approximately nine miles south of the Boise Art Museum, eight men reside on Idaho’s death row, with a ninth, the sole woman, incarcerated in a women’s prison in Pocatello. The looming implementation of a new Idaho law in July 2026, designating the firing squad as the primary method of execution, adds a stark and unsettling layer to the contemplation of capital punishment within the state.

This legislative shift places Idaho alongside Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, and Utah as states permitting execution by firing squad, but Idaho distinguishes itself by making it the primary method, a decision that has been met with significant controversy, with some friends describing it as "barbaric." The author’s exploration delved into the case of Thomas Creech, Idaho’s longest-serving death row inmate, a serial killer who has been incarcerated for over 50 years, 46 of which have been on death row. Creech’s scheduled execution in February 2024 was ultimately called off after prison officials struggled for an hour to find a viable vein for lethal injection, a deeply disturbing and botched procedure that underscored the challenges states face in carrying out executions.

Kevin Fixler, a reporter for the Idaho Statesman who interviewed Creech following the failed execution, revealed Creech’s profound expectation of dying that day and the legal challenges his lawyers are mounting, arguing that a second attempt would constitute "cruel and unusual punishment." The difficulty in obtaining lethal injection drugs, due to pharmaceutical companies’ reluctance to be associated with executions, has led to states enacting shield laws to protect drug sources. This shortage, coupled with the ethical objections of medical professionals, often leaves the administration of lethal injections to inadequately trained prison employees, raising significant concerns about the humane execution of capital sentences.

Seeking an alternative perspective, Craig Durham, an attorney specializing in death penalty cases in Idaho, suggested that execution by firing squad might offer a more swift and potentially less agonizing end compared to the often problematic lethal injection protocols. These protocols typically involve a sequence of drugs—sedative, paralytic, and cardiac arrest—where a failure in one stage can mask the suffering caused by another. Durham also raised a critical point: the visible and visceral nature of a firing squad execution, though controversial and potentially gruesome, could serve to make the public more acutely aware of the state’s role in taking a life, thereby prompting deeper societal reflection on capital punishment.

This underlying question of public awareness and engagement is central to the impact of "The Last Supper." Artist Julie Green, who utilized her art as a platform for advocacy, stated, "I paint to point," a philosophy that resonated with the author’s appreciation for art that provokes thought without dictating conclusions. The exhibition prompted introspection and initiated meaningful dialogue, encouraging a re-examination of deeply held assumptions about justice, punishment, and humanity.

One such conversation took place with Joshua Sharpe, a journalist whose work has been instrumental in exonerating individuals wrongly convicted of murder, a narrative detailed in his book, The Man No One Believed. Sharpe’s accounts of wrongful convictions, which he noted are far more prevalent than commonly understood, provided insight into the extensive legal processes and financial resources required before a death sentence can be carried out. Sharpe, living in Detroit, engaged with Green’s exhibition online, where detailed information about each last meal is available. He observed that Green’s project adds "dignity to this concept of publicizing the last meal," effectively "taking that information and putting humanity back in."

Tragically, Julie Green, who completed the 1,000th plate in September 2021, was battling advanced ovarian cancer at the time. She passed away a few weeks later at her home in Corvallis, Oregon, utilizing the state’s Death With Dignity Act to end her life with physician assistance. Her obituary in The New York Times did not specify her own final meal, leaving a quiet, poignant end to an artist who dedicated years to illuminating the final moments of others through the universal language of food.